Tuesday, August 15, 2017

113. Emily Dickinson - Linda Pastan

.
We think of her hidden in a white dress
among the folded linens and sachets
of well-kept cupboards, or just out of sight
sending jellies and notes with no address
to all the wondering Amherst neighbors.
Eccentric as New England weather
the stiff wind of her mind, stinging or gentle,
blew two half-imagined lovers off.
Yet legend won’t explain the sheer sanity
of vision, the serious mischief
of language, the economy of pain.

Monday, July 10, 2017

112. Nikos Kazantzakis - The Mind Of Man

From: The Saviors of God. translated by Kimon Friar

The mind of man can perceive appearances only
 and never the essence of things

And not all appearances but only the appearance of matter.

And not even these appearances of matter
 but only relationships between them.

And these relationships are not real and independent
 of man for even these are his creations.

And they are not the only ones humanly possible but simply

 the most convenient for his practical and perceptive needs.

Monday, May 29, 2017

111. Sunset Oien - Shuntaro Tanikawa

Sometimes I reread poems I wrote long ago
I don't ask textbook questions like "what was the author feeling when he wrote this?"
When you write a poem, there is nothing but the feeling of wanting to write a poem
Even if I wrote that I am sad
I know it doesn't mean that I was sad at the time

It's difficult to read my own poems critically
I had nearly forgotten them, and while they don't belong to someone else,
they can't possibly be mine
How best to take responsibility is utterly lost on me

Sometimes, unawares, I find myself moved by my own poems
Poetry ignites the lyricism that lies hidden within people
You might say it does so brazenly and without shame

I've heard that Saul Bellow said one of the most essential purposes of literature
Is to pose ethical questions
But the truth which poetry strives for is different from that of novels
Rather than the progression of time, poems concern themselves with moments

But while rereading my poems I think to myself
I can't write like this
A day is made up of more than the sunset
I can't live merely standing there before it

No matter how beautiful it may be 

Sunday, April 30, 2017

1010. Good Bones - Maggie Smith

Good Bones by Maggie Smith

Life is short, though I keep this from my children.
Life is short, and I've shortened mine
in a thousand delicious ill-advised ways
I'll keep from my children. The world is at least
fifty percent terrible, and that's a conservative
estimate, though I keep this from my children.
For every bird there is a stone thrown, bagged,
sunk in a lake. Life is short and the world
is at least half terrible, and for every kind
stranger, there is one who would break you,
thought I keep this from my children. I am trying
to sell them the world. Any decent realtor,
walking you through a real shithole, chirps on
about good bones: This place could be beautiful,
right? You could make this place beautiful.




Wednesday, April 12, 2017

1009. And - ShuntarĊ Tanikawa

Translated from the Japanese by William I Elliott and Kazuo Kawamure

When summer comes
the cicadas
sing again.
Fireworks
freeze
in my memory.
Distant countries are dim
but the universe
is right in front of your nose.
What a blessing 
that people
can die
leaving behind
only the conjunction
"and".

Tuesday, April 04, 2017

1008. What Is Lost - Jorge Luis Borges

Translated from the Spanish by Stephen Kessler

I wonder whee my life is, the one that could
have been and never was, the daring one
or the one of gloomy dread, that other thing
which could as well have been the sword or shield
but never was? I wonder where is my lost
Persian or Norwegian ancestor,
where is the chance of my not being blind,
where is the anchor, the ocean, where the forgetting
to be who I am? I wonder where the pure
night is that the unlettered working day
entrusts to the rough laborer so that he
can also feel the love of literature
I also think about a certain mate
who waited for me once, perhaps still waits.


1007. First Sight - Philip Larkin

.
Lambs that learn to walk in snow
When their bleating clouds the air
Meet a vast unwelcome, know
Nothing but a sunless glare.
Newly stumbling to and fro
All they find, outside the fold,
Is a wretched width of cold.

As they wait beside the ewe,
Her fleeces wetly caked, there lies
Hidden round them, waiting too,
Earth's immeasurable surprise.
They could not grasp it if they knew,
What so soon will wake and grow.

Thursday, March 09, 2017

1006. And Now You - Kate Miller

From The Observances, Kate Miller’s debut collection Carcanet, 2015.

And now you
exist
outside the royal room of blood you occupied
and – without being shown –
can close a fist or yawn.
Practised, you look
already. Hopskip and bowing,
treading measure in a dance.
You only took to unfamiliar air
with your first taste of dust
yesterday as evening fell. All the falling,
all the flow around you,
hair and water, will become familiar:
mother, father: skin-to-skin.
You’ve swum the sea of welcome,
been lifted on the swell,
slipped waxy through the crowd of hands.
Your own breath sounded
the all-clear,
all’s well,
when you sang out a first
exclamatory note
about the cord that tied you
being cut,
the tying-off, your separate knot.